


Unbroken

by kireteiru



Series: Variations on a Theme [1]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Adjacent? Is that a thing?, Canon Compliant, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Free Orcs, M/M, fire drakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 15:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20641805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: You left me lost at seaWaves crash over meBetrayal made me capsizeI didn't think I'd surviveI fought the perfect stormNow I am rebornThe wind and rain seemed endlessBut my courage is relentlessEvery broken promise madeMakes me strive to push through painAnd I will fight the darkness withAll the light I have withinEvery page before this timeNow erased from my mindI'll rewrite my weakness into strength...- "Unbroken", Really Slow Motion (Undaunted).The more things change, the more they stay the same. Or, Talion gets involved inLord of the Rings.





	Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Fine Line Between Light and Darkness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17548460) by [Tgaret990](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tgaret990/pseuds/Tgaret990). 
  * Inspired by [pieces of a broken whole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12628233) by [summoner_yuna_of_besaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoner_yuna_of_besaid/pseuds/summoner_yuna_of_besaid). 
  * Inspired by [Death Seems To Him A Mere Play](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15533550) by [LightningStarborne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningStarborne/pseuds/LightningStarborne), [yourlocalbirb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlocalbirb/pseuds/yourlocalbirb). 

“Thorongil, before you go, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Murmurs rippled through the Rangers, assembled as they were in one of their hidden refuges in Ithilien. Aragorn looked around, noting how the others suddenly seemed wary, unsettled. One stepped forward. “Captain, we have never before told an outsider about the Wind-Rider and his people; we keep him secret even from Minas Tirith. Is this wise?”

“Perhaps not,” the captain, Taranir, answered, “But Thorongil has friends in the North and among the Elves. And you have seen it, same as I, Lendir: he will not last much longer, not without help. Eltariel does what she can, but she no longer has the strength to stem the tide, and she cannot leave for long enough to fetch her Lady. They need help. Perhaps, if Thorongil is willing to carry a message, they will get it.”

An expression like the anticipation of grief flickered over the faces of many men, including Lendir, who said, “I would give him the greater part of my strength, if only I could.”

“So would many of us,” the captain replied, “He is changed, but he is our brother still, and he needs help we cannot give.” He looked to Aragorn. “Please, come and meet him, and then take word to whoever you can.”

“Who am I meeting?”

“The last captain of the Black Gate garrison, now Lord Protector of Minas Morgul. To his enemies, he is the Gravewalker, but to us, he is Talion the Wind-Rider.”

* * *

They were met by a patrol a day out from the Morgul Vale. Taranir explained what he knew on the way - that this Man, “Talion,” had once been a Ranger of Gondor, humble and fair, before he was banished to the Black Gate for killing a nobleman who assaulted his wife. He had served faithfully there, too - until Sauron returned to Mordor and sent his Black Hand to destroy the garrison. Yet Talion survived with the help of an Elven wraith - “They say it was Celebrimbor the Ringmaker himself” - and waged war against Sauron from within Mordor, eventually throwing down and freeing one of the Nazgûl themselves.

“But Celebrimbor was lost, and Sauron cursed Talion to one day fall into darkness and take the place of the one who was released,” the captain said as they rode with the patrol toward the city, “He resists for now, but for how much longer, we do not know. What we _do_ know is that his time is drawing near. Both he and Eltariel, now the Captain of his Guard, are approaching the limits of their strength.”

Again, there was that expression, that anticipation of grief. One member of the patrol murmured, “Avert,” and made a gesture to ward off evil.

“But for now, he holds Minas Morgul and the Morgul Vale against Sauron, and though she is dark and her people strange, in many ways Minas Morgul is safer and freer than Minas Tirith.”

Strange, indeed.

There were fire-drakes perched on the walls and rooftops, with saddles on their backs and Riders near at hand, watching the skies. Warg-like beasts called _caragors_ were stabled near the gates, opposite the stables used for the ordinary horses. There was even a great beast called a _graug_ helping haul materials through the streets. And the beasts were not the only strange things - there were _orcs_ in the city, uruk-hai and olog-hai, living and working seemingly contentedly alongside the Men and the rare Elf and Dwarf. Everyone seemed to speak an odd mix of Black Speech and Westron with the occasional Gondorian Sindarin word thrown in.

Some of the uruks and ologs had brands like handprints glowing on their faces, but they were the exception rather than the rule. Most did not, laughing and feasting and roughhousing amongst themselves and talking and calling greetings to passers-by, who stopped to chat if they could.

Aragorn wished he had at least six more eyes so he could stare in all directions at once. There was so much activity, and he wanted to take everything in as the group made their way through the city to the Tower.

There were more fire-drakes in the courtyard beyond the innermost wall, just four, but they all lifted their heads when the group entered the gates. “Let them scent you,” said the captain, “so they will know you are not an enemy.”

Against his better judgement, Aragorn stepped forward and spread his arms, and the drakes all got up and padded over. They sniffed him from head to toe, their breath hot and damp and smelling of meat and Mordor, before one - burnt umber in color and apparently the leader - whuffed in satisfaction and nudged his hand. He scratched its nose, and the drake’s eyes squeezed shut in clear pleasure, distinct purring filling the air.

The other drakes nudged closer, also hoping for scratches, before a strangely distorted whistle made them all back off.

“Talion,” said the captain, “Good to see you.”

**“It’s good to see you as well, Taranir,”** said the Nazgûl as he approached with his bodyguard - not for his own protection, Aragorn now knew, but to protect others _from_ him. And now the Man could see that Talion did indeed look cursed, like he’d been cast into every one of Mordor’s most evil pits and not all of him had made it out - not even _most_. His skin was corpse-grey, made paler still by his black armor and the dark veins of corruption threading through his flesh, which seemed to _move_ under his skin as if alive. The whites of his eyes were black, too, or at least seemed to be, because his irises glowed yellow-orange, like the fires of Mount Doom burned within.

And though it was nearly high noon, all parts of him cast unnaturally deep shadows, his face nearly invisible under his hood before he pushed it back, wincing and squinting in the bright sunlight.

“This is Thorongil,” the captain introduced him, “a Ranger of the North, and a brave and skilled warrior.”

**“So I’ve heard.”** Talion’s voice was distorted as well, layered and metallic and almost hollow. **“Mae govannen, Thorongil. Welcome to Minas Morgul.”** He offered a gauntleted hand to shake.

“Thank you, Lord Talion.” Aragorn shook. When he met the Nazgûl’s hellish gaze, he was struck by the feeling that although Talion did not know his real name, he _did_ know exactly who he was descended from. _How _he knew was a mystery, however.

**“Just ‘Talion’ is fine. Only those who claim me as their lord address me as such.”** He introduced his bodyguard - the Elves Eltariel and Duilin, the uruks Argash and Názkûga, the women Idril and Esgariel (future Queen of the Shore), and the Dwarf Gredi - then continued, **“We would stay to talk, but we’re going on a raid in Gorgoroth.”**

“Good hunting,” said Aragorn, backing away to give them room.

**“You as well.”** Talion swung up onto his drake’s back with the ease of long experience and offered a hand to Eltariel to pull her up behind him. **“Wind be with you, and may we meet again before the end.”**

When they had gone, Aragorn said, “I’ll do what I can. I don’t know if it will amount to anything, but I _will_ do what I can. You have my word, for whatever it may be worth.”

* * *

**“Eltariel.”**

The Elf jumped but did not show it. Talion was more Wraith than Man these days, and made so little noise that even the keen ears of her people could barely hear him. She looked up from sharpening her blades.

The Nazgûl’s face was blank, as it usually was now, but there was an underlying uncertainty, like he wasn’t sure what to make of something. **“There are visitors on the road from Gondor,”** he said, **“You should greet them. There is one among them I think you will be quite glad to see.”**

She frowned and exchanged glances with Duilin, an Elf of Mirkwood, who nodded. He would watch Talion until she returned, though he did not have the Light of Galadriel to force him back if he stumbled - or Fell. 

Eltariel went, and quickly, using every ounce of Elven speed to race across the rooftops to the city gates. She took a horse from the stables there and galloped as fast as she dared across the bridge over the Morgulduin and down the road toward Gondor. She briefly wondered if this was Talion’s Ring tricking him into sending her to her death, then discarded the thought; it did not have that kind of awareness. Besides, the Rangers of Ithilien would have warned them if a Morgul host was marching through the land and their own spies if the attack came from within Mordor.

Thirty years their army had held the Morgul Vale against Sauron. He had tried to reopen it many times, had sent the rest of the Nine on more than one occasion to try to break Talion’s will, but somehow they always found a way to stand fast. Somehow she always managed to reach Talion in time to hit him with the Light and drag him back from the Dark.

‘But for how much longer?’ She thought as she rounded the bend, ‘Our strength is not what it was, and each year a little more of him is worn away, lost to the Ring. How much longer can we last?’

She pulled her horse up short and stared before remembering herself. “My Lady!”

“Eltariel,” Galadriel greeted her with gentle warmth and a soft smile. Her presence was a balm after the rough grit of Mordor’s darkness. She was riding at the head of a small column of Elves - very small, only twelve, all armed but also carrying packs and satchels. Even her horse was laden, albeit lightly. Elves always traveled lightly.

“My Lady, we did not expect you,” said the assassin, reining her horse up and falling in next to her.

“I did not send word that we were coming,” she replied, “Even now, weakened as he is, the ears of the Enemy are everywhere. But Thorongil brought word of Talion’s struggle to Mithrandir, who passed it to me, so I have come to offer what aid I can on behalf of the Wise and all the Eldar who call us lords.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” said the younger Elf, “There are no words…”

“Then none need be said.” Galadriel smiled gently again. “But tell me of this Man, who wears one of the Nine and fights the Dark Lord. Thorongil was only so forthcoming about him, save that he was in dire need of help.”

So Eltariel told her what she knew of Talion’s past and summarized what had happened since their first meeting, even when it made her turn her face in shame. Though they did not always see eye-to-eye, she should never have left Talion to die in such a manner, or even accepted the New Ring from Celebrimbor.

Galadriel hummed when she finished. “All the Rings of Power are treacherous in their own ways,” she said, “and it would seem this ‘New Ring’ was not as pure as my cousin imagined. His greatest mistake was forging it in Mount Doom, I think; there the One was forged of Sauron’s malice and desire for domination, and it will have left its mark. In addition, this is Mordor, Sauron’s land, not Celebrimbor’s Eregion; his power is stronger here, even if he himself is weakened, and he touches all the Rings in some manner, even the Three. But where is it now? Is the New Ring secure?”

“Talion has said that it is sealed in a secret vault of Celebrimbor’s under Minas Morgul,” Eltariel answered, “but whether that is the truth or not, I do not know. But I _do_ know that it is not on his person, nor is it in the hands of Sauron.”

“I do not think he would have lied to you about it,” the elder Elf said, sounding thoughtful, “but all the same, it’s best not to tempt fate. It has been hidden this long; let it remain so.

“But you say it was cut from your hand? I do not see any missing fingers.”

“Another of Talion’s miracles, it would seem. Despite what happened between us, he was not slow about rescuing me from Barad-dûr, and he froze my fingers with some sort of Wraith magic until - by some other witchcraft, perhaps - he found an Elven healer able to reattach them, and willing to come to Minas Morgul to do it.” She lifted the hand in question and wiggled the digits. “They are not what they were, but neither are they entirely lost. I’ll take what I can get.”

“Indeed,” Galadriel agreed as they turned onto the causeway over the Morgulduin, “Very few of us have the luxury of actually _choosing_ our circumstances; for good or ill, we must make the best of what we have.”

Eltariel led the way up to the Tower, where Talion and the rest of his guard were waiting to receive them. The Nazgûl took one look at Galadriel and gasped in pain, shying back and covering his eyes with an arm. **“Forgive me, Your Grace,”** he rasped as his guardsmen steadied him, **“I did not realize…”**

“No,” said Galadriel, “It is I who must ask forgiveness. I have been using my _feä_ to hide our passage from the Dark Lord; I did not realize it would affect you so strongly. Although, because it _has_, I see that Thorongil was not exaggerating when he said you needed aid.”

**“No, he was not.”** Talion lifted his head and blinked. The sight of her - one of the Eldar touched by Valinor and the Two Trees - still stung his eyes, but he no longer felt like two white-hot knives were driving into his brain. **“Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo, Your Grace.”**

That made Galadriel smile wider. “May it be a peaceful one,” she responded, “Did you learn that yourself, or is that my cousin’s influence?”

**“A little of both, perhaps. When we were between battles, Celebrimbor used to teach me of Elvish culture as he knew it. But please, come in. Rooms have been prepared for you, such as they are; any business can wait until you are rested from your journey.”**

* * *

“These are _your_ chambers.”

**“They are for the lord of the city so I suppose that makes them mine, but they do not see much use unless I’m fostering. I don’t sleep, not anymore.”**

“‘Fostering?’”

**“My fire-drakes are still animals, and like animals sometimes the mothers abandon their young. If we catch it in time, I raise them myself.”** He briefly checked under the bed to make sure no drakelings were hiding under it before stepping back.

“That sounds challenging.”

**“It can be, especially when their fire starts coming in.”**

“Oh my.”

**“Indeed,”** Talion said dryly, **“Hence the reason as much of the city as possible is made from stone.** **I’ll let you get settled in. If there’s anything you need, let one of my people know.”**

“Thank you.”

* * *

“And who is this?”

**“Deldúath.”**

“Mae govannen, Deldúath.” Galadriel held out her hand, which the drake sniffed, then nudged, letting her scratch him. “You have done well here, despite everything that has happened to you.”

**“We have tried,”** Talion replied, stitching a reinforcing strap onto the drake’s harness, sitting cross-legged under the unnaturally deep shade of a tree not far away, **“but not all wars are won with strength of arms.”**

“Neither are they won alone.” The Elf approached him, reached into the sleeve over her robes, and pulled out a small phial of water on a Mithril chain. She held it out to him.

Talion took it, frowning a little. **“What’s this?”**

“The light of Eärendil.”

The Nazgûl looked up sharply. **“The Mariner? The one who guards the Sun and Moon and bears one of the great Silmarils across the sky?”** His eyes widened. **“The light of the Two Trees of Valinor, before it was darkened… Your Grace, I cannot accept this.”**

“If you will not accept it as a gift, will you take it as a curse?” She sank down next to him, elegant and graceful as all her people. “Eltariel tells me that your Ring keeps you alive, but it feeds on your soul, corrupts and darkens it. Feed it _this_ instead, for this can be replenished; your soul cannot. It will not help you reclaim what you have lost, but in this way you will not lose any more. You can keep fighting for all of Middle-earth, until whatever end may come. For him.” She inclined her head in the direction of the Black Tower. “Or for you.”

Talion was silent for a long moment, looking at the phial, touching it with bare fingers. Then he smiled. It was faint and bitter, but still a smile. **“I am already cursed in many ways. What’s one more?”**

Then he pushed back his hood, and slipped the chain over his head.

* * *

“Thorongil!”

Aragorn reined up his pony when he heard Gandalf call his name, and waited for the wizard to catch up to him. “You seem to be in quite the hurry,” the Ranger observed, “What news is there?”

“Word from the Rangers of Ithilien,” the Istar replied, drawing up next to him, “Our quarry has been found.”

“Truly?” Aragorn was surprised. “It’s been almost a year with no sign.”

“Indeed, which is why I want to catch this chance before it slips away. Will you come with me? The meeting place is not far, and it never hurts to have an extra set of eyes.”

So they went together to meet the Rangers at one of their hidden outposts in northern Ithilien.

Talion and his guard arrived after dark, riding dark-colored drakes to better hide from unfriendly eyes. Though it had been nearly forty years, the Nazgûl was almost as unchanged as the Elves. He exchanged greetings with the Rangers as he swung down, and then turned to them. **“Thorongil,”** Talion said, a hint of warmth in his otherwise dead and distorted voice, **“Mithrandir. It’s been a long time. We understand you’ve been looking for this kinslayer here.”**

Eltariel tossed a wriggling bundle down to him from the back of their shared drake. Talion caught it and pulled off the hood to reveal the creature that could only be Gollum. He was bound tightly and gagged, but this last he spat out and snarled, “_Nasty, tricksy Ranger!_ The Bright Master would never accuse us so, no, no! The Precious is our birthday present; it came to us on our birthday! _Gollum, gollum!_”

Talion’s voice went cold and hard. **“Celebrimbor had the same distain for you that I do - he was just better at hiding it, because you had something he wanted. And if you are not a kinslayer, how did you know exactly what I was talking about?”**

Gollum flinched back, then cursed him again and wept.

**“I don't know what use you have for him, but I hope you get it,” **said the Nazgûl, handing him over, **“I only wish we could have caught him before he _entered_ Mordor, rather than on his way _out_.”**

“‘On his way _out_?’” Gandalf repeated, frowning severely, “No one _escapes_ from Mordor.”

**“That was my thought as well, when one of Shelob’s brood told me that her mother had caught _a little fly_ in her webs.”** They exchanged a significant glance, then Talion continued, **“Regardless, I hope he’s useful.”**

“Thank you,” said Aragorn, “but - how are you holding up?”

There was the barest hint of a momentary smile under Talion’s hood. **“The same,”** he answered, **“which is good enough for me. Against the darkness, stalemate is victory.”** He inclined his head to Eltariel, who returned the gesture with a slight smile. Then he reached down the front of his armor and pulled out the necklace Galadriel had given him, explaining as he did so.

Gandalf nodded and sighed in relief. “I knew that Lady Galadriel was working on a solution,” he said, “I’m glad to see that she succeeded, even if it’s just a stopgap measure.”

**“It’s more than I expected,” **Talion replied, tucking the phial back inside his armor, **“and it can be renewed indefinitely, which makes it all I require until the Black Tower falls.”**

“With any luck, that will be sooner rather than later.”

Talion tilted his head in a very birdlike manner - or perhaps drake-like, because his mount mirrored him. **“You know something.”**

“Suspicions,” said Gandalf, glancing down at Gollum, “though I am now in a position to have them confirmed.”

“The Precious?” Gollum piped up, “You know where the Precious is? Give it to us! It belongs to us! Filthy thieving Baggins stole it! _Gollum, gollum!_”

The wizard looked back up at the Nazgûl. “_Sooner_ rather than _later_.”

**“I cannot imagine that the fall of the Dark Tower will be quiet or easy,”** said the wraith, **“We will start evacuating our people, or at least preparing for evacuation from the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and we will rescue as many slaves as we can along the way.”**

He looked to the captain of the local Rangers, who nodded and said, “We will prepare for refugees.”

Talion swung back up onto his drake. **“Whenever you or whoever come with It, send word ahead. Even with this,”** He touched his armor where the phial lay hidden. **“I am still more Wraith than Man, yet enough sense remains to know that I cannot stand before It and remain myself. I need time to get out of the way.”**

“I cannot say what the future holds, but for whoever bears It, I will tell them,” Gandalf promised.

Talion nodded, and he and his guard vanished into the night.

* * *

A little more than a year later, the Council of Elrond gathered in Rivendell, and among them were two strangers from the East who had arrived the night before, so late that only Elrond and Gandalf spoke with them.

“You’ve come a long way,” said Elrond when their drake had landed in a courtyard and folded her wings, “By what names are you known?”

“I am Raneth,” said the woman, unstrapping herself and swinging down, “a Sky Captain of Minas Morgul, and this is Galuven, my second-in-command.”

The man dismounted after her hand bowed.

“And this _heathen_ here,” she continued, scratching the drake’s chin, “is Piamiulë.”

“‘Little mewer’ seems to be something of a misnomer,” Gandalf observed, taking note of the drake’s increasingly loud purring.

“That’s the only noise she makes,” Galuven answered, smiling, “But it’s been a long journey for her. Is there somewhere she can rest and hunt?”

Elrond directed them to a small wood nearby and arranged for a whole deer, already slain, to be brought to the drake. “We will stay with her, just in case,” said Raneth while Piamiulë roasted the deer with her fire, “Accidents happen, and we have no wish for strife between our peoples.”

The Riders spoke late into the night with the wizard and the Elf lord, telling them of the goings-on of Minas Morgul and Mordor beyond, and they joined the council the next day, listening to the tales of those present. Yet when Boromir spoke, they could not keep silent.

“‘A gift?’” Galuven repeated disdainfully, “You would call _the One_ a _gift_ and use it as a weapon, when even the lesser Rings have caused greater men to fall into darkness?”

“Marching into Mordor wearing the One would only deliver it directly to Sauron’s hand. It has abandoned more than one bearer in the past, seeking to return to its master,” Raneth added, laying a calming hand on her lieutenant’s arm, “You would be no different. _None of us_ would be any different.”

“The One Ring answers to Sauron alone,” Aragorn agreed, “It has no other master.”

“And what would mere Rangers know of this matter?!” Boromir returned.

Legolas shot to his feet. “This is no mere _Ranger_,” he nearly growled, “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and you owe him your allegiance.”

Boromir’s eyes widened. “Aragorn? This is Isildur’s Heir?”

“And Heir to the throne of Gondor,” the Elf added.

“Gondor has no king. Gondor _needs_ no king,” Boromir said before turning to the other two, “And you? Are you also descendants of Isildur?”

“No. Not unless Eärnur was captured rather than killed, and enslaved in Mordor. Possible, but very unlikely,” Raneth answered, “We both were born as slaves there, but we were freed by our lord when we were children.”

“It is because of that that we have had the misfortune of seeing the Nazgûl up close,” Galuven added, “If the threat was severe enough, some of them would come to make _examples_ of rebellious slaves. Our parents were among them.” He shuddered. “There was nothing to be seen of them under their robes, only darkness, but their breath - their very _presence_ was black and fell enough to make even the worst uruk captain seem like a mere child. And they were born of the _lesser_ Rings; I cannot even begin to imagine what manner of _monster _might come of the One.”

“A new Dark Lord,” Gandalf answered, “With one of exceptional will, Sauron might be thrown down, but the wielder would merely take his place. It _must_ be destroyed.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” One of the dwarves grabbed his axe and brought it down on the golden band - only to be thrown back, the blade shattered and smoking.

The Ring remained untouched.

“The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess,” said Elrond, “The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom; only there can it be unmade. It must be taken into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this. Raneth, Galuven? You have the fastest and most direct means to reach Mordor.”

Both of them immediately shook their heads. “We dare not,” said the Sky Captain, “The Ring works quickly on the hearts of Men; Isildur had but to touch it to fall under its sway. Even if we set out at top speed and did not stop save at need, I fear that by the time we reached Orodruin, we would not have the strength to let it go.”

“And your mount would not take another Rider.”

“Not easily, and inexperienced Riders are _worse_ than dangerous, to her and to themselves. But I would not recommend sending the Ring by air anyway - too noticeable, too easily seen from the ground and tracked by the Eye, at least in Mordor. But on the ground, the Ringbearer is just one ant among many.”

“One does not simply _walk_ into _Mordor_,” Boromir protested, “Its Black Gates are guarded by _more_ than just _orcs_. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust; the very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with _ten thousand men_ could you do this. It is folly.”

From there the council descended into argument until Frodo cried that he would take the Ring to Mordor, though he did not know the way. Several of the gathered people pledged themselves to his aid, including three other halflings who burst from hiding to join him.

After it was decided but before the council finished, one of the Elves spoke up. “I agree with your belief that it is unsafe to take the Ring by air,” said Erestor, an advisor to Elrond, “but my question is this: you have the _means_ to do so?” When both Riders nodded, he continued, “What manner of creatures do you ride? Fellbeasts?”

“A reasonable assumption to make, given we said we were born in Mordor, but no,” Raneth replied, “Fire-drakes. Our lord captured some from Sauron’s forces decades ago. While they are far from _tame,_ they have been trained to take Riders who are not the Nine. He has bred them carefully over the years. Since you are of Gondor, no doubt you have seen some of them in flight over the Ephel Dúath.” She turned to Boromir.

“I have seen drakes over the mountains, with riders on their backs,” the man confirmed, frowning, “but I do not believe that they can be ridden by _Men_.”

“By your leave, Lord Elrond?”

The Elf lord waited until Frodo tucked the Ring away, then led them all to a wide courtyard paved with flat stones. There Raneth put her fingers to her lips and whistled, loud and piercing.

Piamiulë took flight from the wood and soared over to land in front of her Riders on quiet paws, folding her wings tight against her sides. “Good girl,” said Raneth, amidst gasps from the others save Elrond, Gandalf, and Aragorn. She scratched the drake’s nose while Galuven dug through a pouch for a treat for her, and then she swung up into the saddle on her back, settling in place with ease and taking up the reins. “Does this satisfy you?” She asked Boromir, “Or shall I put on my gear and fly around the valley and no doubt alarm the guards?”

“I… am satisfied,” said Boromir, hesitantly extending a hand, “Though I never imagined that such a thing might be done.”

Only Raneth’s firm hand on the reins stopped him from losing his hand when the drake snapped at him. “_Trained,_ not _tame!_” She reiterated, “You must allow her to scent you before she will let you touch her. Hold still.”

At a murmured command, Piamiulë investigated each of them from head to toe, then allowed them to touch her, even Boromir, though she seemed to eye him with suspicion.

“What’s her name?” Frodo asked, touching a hand to one of her wings while Sam hovered nearby, wringing his hands.

“Piamiulë.”

Legolas and a few other Elves couldn’t conceal their amusement. “‘_Little Mewer_?’”

“She doesn't roar or growl the way the other drakes do; she only purrs. Which is odd, because her mother is _quite_ loud.”

“And what’s _her_ name? Róma?”

“Daerwen, ‘Dreadful Woman,’ because she’s too fierce for anyone but Lord Talion to handle. Sauron’s forces know her by sight by now - and know to run when they spot her,” Galuven answered with a grin, “but her roars can be heard from a long way off, so ‘Loud Sound’ wouldn’t exactly be _wrong_.”

* * *

Piamiulë and her Riders proved to be an invaluable aid when the scouts went out, surveying vast distances quickly and easily, out of range of even the greatest archers. They also provided more accurate maps to the Fellowship - and more accurate information. When they heard Gimli’s suggestion to go through the Mines of Moria, Raneth cursed in Black Speech, and Galuven cried, “Avert!” Both made the gesture to ward off evil before he continued, “Our lord has visited Khazad-dûm many times to mine for Mithril to sell; war isn’t cheap, especially not against the Black Tower. But always he has spoken of a Balrog within, and armies of orcs that worship it. Do _not_ go through Moria unless there is no other choice.”

“My cousin Balin went to establish a colony there, years ago!” Gimli cried, “What became of them?!”

“Lord Talion has never spoken of them to us; we can only assume it’s because they’re dead. I’m sorry.”

“I cannot imagine that the Redhorn Pass will be any easier to cross, especially in the dead of winter, which is fast approaching,” Raneth added, “That bastard Caradhras has no love of Men or Elves or Dwarves, but even so, try the Pass before Khazad-dûm. If there is no other choice… You must be more quiet than the dead. Disturb _nothing_ within. If you must speak, do not do it above a whisper. And keep a strong watch, always. For now at least, that place belongs to the Enemy.”

* * *

The Fellowship was warned, but in vain. The Bridge of Khazad-dûm broke, and the Balrog fell - and took Gandalf with it. The survivors fled the Halls of Moria, ultimately taking shelter in Lothlórien beyond. The Quest seemed distant within the bounds of the Elven kingdom, but Frodo still heard Aragorn, Celeborn, and Galadriel discussing this “Lord Talion” more than once, but always in Quenya and faster than he could understand. Aragorn seemed concerned, but the Elves reassured him as best they could.

In the end, it was Boromir who asked, “Who is this ‘Talion’ of whom you speak? The drake-riders from the Council called him their lord, but before then I had never heard of him.”

All of the Fellowship listened intently, though some hid it better than others. Aragorn noticed anyway and sighed softly. “Talion is a Ranger of Gondor, or was, at any rate,” he answered, “and he wages war against Sauron from within the walls of Mordor itself. He holds Minas Morgul and the Morgul Vale against the Dark Lord, and awaits our coming. The Lady Galadriel tells me that he was here, briefly, while we were in Moria, but he has since returned to Mordor.

“As for why you have not heard of him… You are the son of the Steward, and Talion has no love for the White City’s nobility for more reasons than one, which would not be mine to reveal even if I did know them. But he has long been a friend to the Rangers of Ithilien, offered them safety and succor in times of trouble, and in turn they have striven hard to keep him and his a secret, for fear that machinations in the White City might lay him low, clip his claws and file his fangs.” He held up a hand to forestall any protest. “It would not have come from you, I think, and I’m sure he would agree if he met you. But if you misspoke, you words would be heard and not discounted like a mere Ranger’s.”

“Yet _you_ have met him.”

“Twice,” the Man confirmed, “It was he who handed the creature Gollum over to Gandalf and myself. But those who introduced us did not know I am Isildur’s Heir, else they likely would have thought twice about it.”

“And what did you think of him?”

Aragorn thought of the not-yet-a-Nazgûl and his long and personal struggle against the darkness. “Mordor and its Dark Lord have left their mark on him,” he said finally, “but he is still a good man, and he is ready for this war to end - as are we all.”

* * *

But even the knowledge that they had safe passage into Mordor was not enough to stop the Fellowship from breaking. Boromir was tempted by the Ring, and Frodo fled before him to the top of Amon Hen, where he encountered Aragorn.

“Frodo?”

The hobbit started and whirled to face the Man. “It has taken Boromir.”

He frowned in concern and took a step closer. “Where is the Ring?”

Frodo scrambled away. “Stay away!”

Aragorn followed him, increasingly alarmed. “Frodo! I swore to protect you.”

“Can you protect me from yourself?” The hobbit demanded, and saw that the Man at last understood. He opened his hand to reveal the One. “Would you destroy it?”

His gaze was caught and held by the Ring as he approached slowly - then he closed the hobbit’s hand and pushed it to his chest. “I would have gone with you to the end,” he said, “Into the very fires of Mordor.”

“I know,” said the hobbit, relaxing a little, “Look after the others. Especially Sam; he will not understand.”

Aragorn nodded, then paused. “If you can get to Talion, he will be able to give you further guide and guard into Mordor. You must cross the river but stick as close to it as you can to get through Emyn Muil. The Nindalf beyond will be hard going, but with your sword and some rope and the reeds there, you should be able to make yourself a small raft to ride the river.

“Once the land clears, head east towards the Ephel Dúath until you reach the road, and follow it south towards the ruins of Osgiliath. It spans both sides of the river; there is no way to miss it. Thereabouts is where the Morgulduin joins the Anduin, and the Morgul Road the Harad Road, which you will be on. Follow the Morgul Road and River up into the mountains, and they will bring you to the Morgul Vale and Minas Morgul: Talion’s city. Tell the guards, whoever or whatever they may be, that you are a messenger from Mithrandir and Thorongil, seeking an audience with Lord Talion. He will understand. And if you come across any Rangers, tell them the same and ask for an escort, if any can be spared. They too will understand, or at least not question you overmuch.”

Frodo nodded. But then the brightening glow of Sting caught their gazes, and the hobbit fled while the Man went to meet the orcs with sword drawn and face set.

* * *

Frodo and Sam did not come across any Rangers; rather, after getting lost anyway in Emyn Muil and getting Gollum to lead them to the Harad Road, the Rangers came across _them_, tracking the smoke from their campfire.

Sam was understandably upset about being captured - and being talked about as if they weren’t present. Yet when Faramir introduced himself as a Captain of Gondor, Frodo perked up. “‘A Captain of Gondor?’” he repeated, “If this offends, I am truly sorry, but are you Rangers?”

“We are,” Faramir said warily, “and who are you?”

“I am Frodo, son of Drogo, and this is Samwise, son of Hamfast,” the hobbit answered, “We are hobbits of the Shire, a land far to the north and west, and messengers sent by Mithrandir and Thorongil to seek an audience with Lord Talion.”

Faramir and his men started at that. The other three murmured amongst themselves while Faramir asked, “And the third who was with you? He had an ill-favored look.”

“A guide of sorts, whom we met on the road while lost. We were separated from our companions - two of our kin, an Elf, a Dwarf, Mithrandir, and two Men, Thorongil and Boromir.”

The Captain hummed, then withdrew to speak quietly with his men. When he returned, he said, “Talion sent word of your coming a month past. While we cannot provide you with an escort, when our business here is done, my men and I will be going south, to reinforce Osgiliath. You should come with us; the road will not be safe for lone travelers, and I do not like the look of the one you call your _guide_. If the Valar are merciful, we can get a message to Talion, and he can send an escort of his own to meet us there.”

“That’s more than I dared hope for; thank you.” Frodo bowed to the Man, but he was careful to keep the Ring concealed under his clothes.

Faramir departed but left two men behind as a guard. Sam sidled close. “Mr. Frodo, beggin’ your pardon, but how’d you know to say that?”

“Aragorn told me, before we parted ways,” the other hobbit replied, “He said this Talion could get us into Mordor if we could reach him, and that the Rangers knew of him.”

“Well,” said Sam, “Strider hasn’t led us wrong yet. I s’pose we can see where this goes. Better than Slinker and Stinker, at any rate.”

* * *

“Wings,” Legolas said suddenly, lifting his head from where he had been sharpening his blades, “I hear wings.”

The men nearest the narrow windows moved aside to let him draw close, to listen and see. “I can see nothing,” he said at last, “but wings I hear, great wings. Whatever they are, they must be up in the clouds.”

But even as he finished speaking, shadows began darting down out of the clouds - and breathing streams of fire over the uruk-hai beyond the walls of the fortress. There were dozens of them it seemed, all moving surprisingly fast for their size, with Riders on their backs just visible in the darkness.

“Fire-drakes,” said Aragorn, moving up next to the Elf, “It seems that Talion has sent some of his people to our aid.”

With the drakes providing a distraction, the king and his riders were able to ride forth from Helm’s Deep and cause quite a lot of damage even before the arrival of Éomer and the rest of the Rohirrim, and the Huorns from Fangorn. The rest of the men came up from the caves beyond and joined their king in his charge, routing the forces of Isengard and driving them from the valley and into the trees to meet whatever fate awaited them within.

The rising sun burned off the clouds over the valley, revealing that there weren’t nearly as many drakes as they had thought; the night and the clouds had enabled the dark-colored beasts to hide their numbers. All told, about fifteen drakes landed in the valley amidst the wreckage from Saruman’s army, their riders swinging down from their backs with ease.

Some rode double on their drakes, sitting back to back. Others rode single, and their mounts tended toward the smaller, quicker side. Half of the Riders were human, men and women alike, with a lone Elf of indeterminate gender and a burly dwarf woman with a beard that rivaled Gimli’s.

The rest of the Riders were orcs, all wearing the same heraldry as the other riders, hovering close to the drakes and watching the Rohirrim with wary eyes. They joined their fellow Riders in tending their mounts, leading them to what was left of the valley’s stream, dumping the bodies of Saruman’s fighters into piles for burning but bringing the bodies of the fallen Rohirrim to some invisible, unofficial line in the valley. There the horse-lords claimed them for a proper burial, looking just as wary as the orcs.

“Aragorn! Mithrandir!”

Their heads craned around - to find Raneth and Galuven jogging toward them, Piamiulë following behind with another drake and his uruk Rider. The orc and the two drakes hung back while the other two approached. “I see that the reports of your demise were an exaggeration,” said Raneth, smiling at the wizard.

“For a time I was gone,” Gandalf replied, “but I have been sent back until my task is done.”

“Good, good. You remember Torz?” She waived the uruk over.

“Indeed I do,” he said, inclining his head to the uruk, who returned the gesture. “How is your wife?”

“She is well,” the orc grunted, a small smile brightening his face, “We have a daughter now.”

That made the men of Rohan blink, because _what_. _Orcs?_ With wives and _children?_

“This is Torz,” Raneth introduced, “Co-Captain of the Night Wing, and his drake, Laeraewen.”

The drake in question, sleek and ash-grey, trilled at his name and nuzzled his Rider. Torz grinned and rubbed his nose.

Other introductions went around, then Théoden said, “Forgive me for saying so, but I am surprised to find uruks working together with Men to defend the West.”

“Not all those who serve the Dark Tower do it willingly,” Torz answered, jerking his chin. Another orc and the Elf of indeterminate gender were working together to sling corpses of Saruman’s uruk-hai onto an already burning pile, talking amongst themselves in Black Speech and snickering occasionally. “There are just as many of us enslaved as there are of you - of Men. _We’re_ just the ones who managed to get away - and wanted to.”

That made the king frown. “What do you mean, ‘wanted to?’”

“Our lord, Talion, has spent a lot of time talking with lore-masters,” said the orc, inclining his head to Gandalf, who returned the gesture, “and they’re determined that whatever else is true, there are two kinds of uruk, and what kind we are depends on when our last Elven ancestor was taken by the Great Enemy.

“For the first kind, they were taken before the Valar found them and led them west. That was before they saw their light and that of those Trees, so they only knew darkness, and darkness they became when the Great Enemy broke them. We call their descendants ‘True-Dark,’ or Uruks of Night.

“The second kind comes from the Elves who came back to Middle-earth after the Great Enemy killed their king and stole their jewels - the Star-Gems, the _Silmarils_. They fought wars trying to take them back, and many were killed but some were captured - and became _us_.” Torz thumped his fist against his chest. “We are the Grey, the Uruks of Twilight. Our blood remembers the light of the Far West, even if we ourselves have never seen it, and many of us would return to it, if only we had the chance.” 

“And your lord has given it to you.”

The orc nodded. “That and more.” He smiled, fierce-looking but also warm and happy. “I have a family - a wife and children of my own, who were born free of the Dark Tower - and I’m not the only one.”

“And you choose to fight against Sauron.”

Another nod. “We don’t want to be his slaves again, or see our kids in chains.”

“Why not leave?”

“And go where?” he asked Éomer, who had spoken, “The Rangers of Ithilien know we are _not enemies_, but an orc is an orc to the rest of the west, and the north, too. East and south are Sauron’s allies, willing or not. There is nowhere for us to go. Not yet, at least.”

“‘Not yet?’”

“Lithariel, Queen-in-Exile of Núrn, has promised us land there if Sauron is defeated for good, and her daughter’s promised to honor that if she doesn’t live to see it. A lot of their people have been enslaved or killed - or both - so there’s space, and they said that as long as we agree to live in a reasonable amount of peace, we’ll be welcome there.” He shrugged. “It’s not much - yet - but it’s more than we had, and we’re fighting for it.”

“Then we are glad to have your aid, for however long that might be,” said Théoden, inclining his head to the orc. Torz did the same.

“Lord Talion told us to see Saruman defeated,” said Raneth, “But sadly we cannot linger. Corsairs from Umbar are sailing for Gondor, and the Night Wing is being dispatched to burn as many ships as we can, once we are done here.”

“If we have our way, it will be all of them,” said Galuven, and Torz made a gesture of affirmation.

“We are going to Isengard to confront Saruman,” said Gandalf, “You should come with us, and tell us what you know of the ordering of Sauron’s forces. Such information will be without price in the coming days.”

So they did, for they brought a kingly gift with them: maps of all of Middle-earth, drawn clear and accurate from drake-back, one of which they gave to Théoden, and the other to Aragorn. “Compliments of our lord,” said Torz, “Talion has one as well, just bigger, with a plate of glass over it so he can draw on it with an inkbrush and wipe it away without damaging the map.”

“Your lord is clever indeed,” said Gandalf.

“I don't know about _that_, but he’s doing his best.”

* * *

The Rangers and the hobbits hurried south through the woods of Ithilien - with Gollum as well, who had been caught fishing in a pool below one of the Rangers’ hideouts. On the way, Frodo noticed that a lot of the Men looked sidelong at him and Sam and murmured amongst themselves. Yet when he asked Faramir if they were in danger, the Man answered, “They are curious. Talion told us that you carry a weapon of Mordor to its destruction, yet they see nothing that resembles what they would call a weapon on you, and your swords are clearly made by Elves or Men.

“For my part… Talion implied enough, and I know enough from my own upbringing to perhaps guess near the mark. I have no desire to know any more, but for some, warning them off would only make them more determined to know.”

“You - you _know_?” Frodo said, voice wavering.

“I can guess near enough,” Faramir replied, “There are many records held in the citadel or Minas Tirith, which detail ancient happenings otherwise long forgotten - to those who know how to read them, at least. I am one such, and so I know enough to say that this weapon - whatever it may or may not be - is treacherous to all hands save the Enemy’s. I know you fear it being taken from you, but I would not do so, not even if it was the last and only hope for the West.

“But look! Osgiliath awaits, and with any luck, your escort does as well.”

As Aragorn had said, what was left of the once-great city spanned both sides of the Anduin, and both shores were held by Gondor - for the moment. Yet there were signs of recent fighting on the river’s shores, and more than a few men sported wounds from enemy weapons.

Frodo and Sam followed Faramir as he sought the commander of the garrison. The news was grim; a great force of uruks had taken part of the eastern shore and was pushing hard to seize the rest as well. “News has come from the Riders near the Black Gate,” said the Man, “Sauron’s army is coming. A hundred thousand uruks, no less, and not including the Easterlings and Haradrim.”

“So this force has been sent to seize the river crossing ahead of them,” Faramir mused, “And Minas Morgul? Any news from there?”

“Nothing yet,” was the reply, “We cannot hold the fords, so we’ve asked for drakes enough to cover our retreat. If they’re coming, they’re still above the clouds.”

But then a terrible screech made them all double over, covering their ears even as fear flooded their hearts.

“_Nazgûl!_”

One of the Black Riders on an grey Fellbeast screamed over Osgiliath, leading the charge of uruks toward the river banks. Helpless against the cry, Frodo felt his body move on his own - the Ring at work, leading him up a flight of cracked stairs to the battlements of a wall. The Nazgûl on the wing approached, the Fellbeast’s claws reaching for him even as he felt the overpowering urge to put on the Ring.

But then another shout went up, this one hopeful.

_“Daerwen!_”

Before Frodo’s very eyes, a _massive_ fire-drake, red as blood, streaked down from the clouds to close her jaws on the Fellbeast’s neck. Bones crunched like wood and ground like stone even as the second Rider - a blonde Elf woman - jumped from the drake’s back to attack the black-robed Nazgûl. The Ringwraith screeched in alarm and blocked her initial strike, whipping its sword from its sheath, but her blades sank home anyway.

The Wraith seemed to burst, before whirling away toward Mordor in a cloud of black smoke and green balefire. The Fellbeast went limp in the drake’s grasp even as the Elf leaped from it, and Daerwen released the other mount to regain the air.

But Frodo’s gaze was caught by the Rider still on her back. His black armor - sharp-edged, harsh angles - and cloak - thick and heavy, casting deep shadows - made him seem the very image of a servant of Sauron, yet there was no doubt in the hobbit’s mind that _this_ was Talion.

Daerwen roared, and then breathed a long stream of hot fire onto a score of attackers, who screamed and fell. She was not alone; a half-dozen other drakes were also harrying the uruk attackers, but there were still too many. As the commander had said, they had only come to cover the retreat of the Gondorians, but they were fighting hard regardless.

Frodo took it all in in the space of a heartbeat - right before Sam tackled him off the battlements and back into cover. The hobbit hadn’t even noticed the Ring still hovering before his finger.

Two more Nazgûl screamed, and Daerwen - now somehow Riderless (where had Talion gone?) - went straight for them. Her claws and teeth were longer and sharper than the Fellbeasts’, her scales thicker than their hide, her will stronger and her spirit more _ferocious_; they fell before her like they were mere prey, rather than beasts bred for war, plummeting out of the sky and taking their wraiths with them. They too burst into smoke and balefire and fled.

The drake shrieked her victory, then started pursuing the uruks.

“Over here.”

Faramir returned - and Talion was right behind him, eyes blazing in the deep shadows of his hood. He spotted them and stopped dead, fiery eyes locked on the Ring, still swinging free, and Frodo felt the Ring _reach_ for the Man even as he hurried to conceal it again.

Talion shuddered violently, armor rattling and breath coming rough and quick, but he seemed to throw off the Ring’s influence, or at least turn it aside. **“That’s them,”** he said his voice warped, metallic, and rough with his struggle. Then, louder, **“Eltariel!”**

After a moment or two, the blonde Elf emerged from the ruins, twin blades dripping with black orc blood. Talion gestured; she saw, and then nodded, “I will lead them in.”

**“Torvin will be waiting in the Tower at Ungol. Do not delay.”**

“Indeed not.”

But then orcs charged their location, and Faramir and Talion drew their swords and moved to defend even as the Elf - Eltariel - led them through the ruins, slaying orcs as they went. “Stay close,” she warned the hobbits, “With this many foes, I cannot actively watch you; you _must_ stay close.”

They did so, and she got them out of the city and into the brush beyond just in time for Daerwen to rush overhead, Talion on her back once more, leading the other drakes back to the Morgul Vale.

Talion had the White Tree of Gondor embroidered in white thread on his black cloak, and Aragorn’s words echoed in Frodo’s ears: “Mordor and its Dark Lord have left their mark upon him, but he is still a good man.”

* * *

Talion was gone from Minas Morgul by the time they arrived, along with most of his forces, flying over the Ephel Dúath or sprinting through the tunnels of Cirith Ungol, studiously avoiding the ones Shelob and her brood claimed as their own. The remaining force of Men was also preparing to depart, albeit back the way the hobbits had come; they meant to attack Sauron’s army from behind as it crossed the Anduin, then pursue it to Minas Tirith, to do whatever damage they could.

Eltariel led them to the Tower and found a healer - an _orcish_ healer, who tutted at the sight of their cuts and bruises and smeared some floral-scented salve on them, wrapping them with light bandages. “You’ll be all right, shorties,” he grunted in thickly-accented Westron, “Just get some rest while the Wind-Rider opens the way.”

When he had gone, both hobbits looked to the Elf, who shrugged a little and smiled. “Are you truly so surprised? We are led by one of the Nine, after all.”

“But he’s not one of them,” said Frodo.

“Not yet,” said Eltariel, “and hopefully, not ever. Get some rest. Your journey is almost over, but there’s still a long way to go.”

When she had gone, Sam looked to Frodo. “Mr. Frodo, I didn’t say nothing earlier - didn’t want to get Mr. Faramir in trouble - but where’s Gollum gone? He disappeared when - when _Talion_ showed up.”

The elder hobbit realized that he was right with a growing sense of trepidation. From the moment the cry of “Daerwen!” had gone up, Sméagol had vanished, fleeing into the ruins of Osgiliath like the Dark Lord himself had come out of his Tower in pursuit. Although perhaps that metaphor wasn’t far off the mark, given that Sméagol had warned them to be careful of the “nasty, tricksy Ranger” who lived in the Morgul Vale. 

“There’s nothing we can do about him now, save keep a sharp eye,” he answered, “and pray that nothing comes of it.”

* * *

Torvin was a Dwarf and a hunter, and since he had lived in Mordor for decades, he was the best guide they could ask for. As Talion had said, he was waiting for them at the Tower of Cirith Ungol, recently retaken by the Wind-Rider and his warriors. The Wraith himself had turned south, to open the Gap of Núrn to refugees fleeing the future destruction of the Dark Tower.

Yet most of his drake-riders turned back after the fortresses were taken, and flew over the Ephel Dúath to join up with the human forces preparing for the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. The fire-drakes proved to be utterly invaluable there, especially against the mûmakil of the south; the great beasts feared the fire and ran wild through the ranks of the enemy when the towers on their backs were set alight.

Even though it was still day - such as it was, with the heavy cloud cover from Mordor - the Night Wing came to join them as well, having burned many of the Corsairs’ ships before they even reached the mouth of the Anduin.

Then Aragorn came with the army of the dead and turned the battle into a rout, putting Sauron’s forces to the sword.

Though Raneth and Galuven again descended to say hello, neither they nor the other drake-riders lingered long on the Pelennor Fields, staying only long enough for the drakes to fill their bellies with meat from the dead mûmakil before flying east once more.

Many more drakes came, however, on some kind of rotation, feasting on the giant corpses and aiding in the burning of the orc bodies.

Talion himself came with Daerwen in the pre-dawn hours the day after the battle, and wound up being drawn into the debate of the commanders. Though the other lords were alarmed at the sight of him - still very much more Nazgûl than Man, and as Man more than half a corpse - Aragorn and Gandalf greeted him warmly and welcomed him in. **“My people and I have taken Núrn,”** he reported, **“or as much of it as we can securely hold right now, and I’ve sent as many of my Riders north as I dared, to free slaves and otherwise stir up trouble in Gorgoroth.”**

“What of Sauron’s numbers? How many men does he have left?” Aragorn asked.

**“Many thousands,” t**he Nazgûl answered, **“Mostly the True-Dark uruks, but some Easterlings and Haradrim, and war beasts. If I had to guess, I’d say between ten and thirty thousand, but no more than that.”**

“And our messengers? Did they reach you?”

**“They did indeed,”** he said, **“I gave them the best guard and guide that I could spare and sent them on almost a week past. For safety’s sake, none know what road they follow, but they have gone.”**

“And you? How are you holding up?”

**“I won my battle with the Ring, but it was the hardest battle I have ever fought and my strength is nearly spent.” **He did seem more tired, more beaten-down and deadened than usual. **“I sent a messenger to Lothlórien, but they have been attacked twice now, which has drawn away Galadriel and Celeborn’s strength. But the Witch-king has been destroyed, and it was through him that Sauron had most of his pull on me.”**

“The…?” Aragorn touched his breastbone where the phial lay hidden on Talion’s, and the Nazgûl pulled it out.

The water was almost black with ash and corruption, only the barest glimmer of light left within. The phial itself was cracked and scarred in more than one place, but it was holding for the moment.

“I will do what I can for you,” said Gandalf, “though I cannot promise it will be as effective as Lady Galadriel’s art.”

**“_Anything_ is better than becoming one of the Nine,”** Talion replied, **“Especially _now_, when we are so close to the end.”**

So the commanders debated, and Talion with them, providing additional information about Mordor and the ordering of its troops. In the end, they all decided to heed Gandalf’s wisdom and bait Sauron into a trap, making him think that Aragorn had taken the Ring and was marching it overthrow the Dark Lord.

“Talion? Can you be with us in this?” asked the wizard.

**“You mean to use me as part of the trap,”** he observed, **“To make it seem as if my will has at last been broken by the presence of the One, and that the last of _his_ Nine is the First of _Gondor’s_. To make it seem as if I instruct in the One’s use from my experience with my own Ring of Power.”**

“Yes,” said Gandalf, “Sauron knows of loyalty arising out of love and of fear, yet he has only experienced the latter, and knows only a little of the former. Loyalty out of love he knows only as the weak loving the strong who stand up to defend them. It would never enter into his mind that one of the Nine might bend knee to one weaker than himself out of love - not even you, who has fought so long and so hard against him. And he would never dream that one of the Nine could love his people enough for what you have done; no doubt he believes you seek to carve a kingdom of your own out of his realm.”

**“I have never wanted a throne or a crown, only peace and safety for those who call me their lord.”** Then Talion smiled - _really_ smiled, for the first time in years. **“But I have ever enjoyed pulling one over on the Black Tower,”** he said, **“Mithrandir, it would be my_ genuine_ pleasure.”**

* * *

Daerwen refusedtowalkaspartoftheforcegoingtothe Morannon, pridefulandwrathfulthingthatshewas,butamongsttheRohirrimahorsewasfoundthatwould consent to bear him as long as Shadowfax stayed close and calm in the presence of the Nazgûl.Ontheway,attherequestofAragorn,Taliontoldthemhisstory - as much of it as he was willing to share, which was most, and by some wizardry of Gandalf’s his voice carried so that the other commanders - and indeed all the men - could hear his tale.

Though there were many who murmured that his story must be false, Talion’s men spoke up for him - and Minas Morgul, when they reached her, spoke for herself. Though still illuminated by sickly green corpselight, the city was defended by both Men and uruks and filled with refugees from Mordor and Ithilien, young and old, wounded and infirm. There were a few drakes in the same state - too old to fight, too young, too sick, too wounded - but all of them still had their fire, which was enough to make them still formidable opponents to any who would try to take the city from them.

“And what will you do?” Aragorn asked when Talion came to the end of his abbreviated tale, “When the Black Tower falls?”

**“That depends on many things, most of which revolve around Celebrimbor. Did he betray me of his own free will, or was there something more sinister at work?”** The Nazgûl swung down from his borrowed horse and gently laid a hand on the mare’s flank. **“You are very brave to bear one such as I,” **he told her, giving her a soft pat, then he turned to the stable hands. **“See that she is put next to Shadowfax here for the night, and treat her as if she were Daerwen herself.”**

The drake herself shrieked from where she’d alighted on a rooftop nearby.

“When you say ‘something more sinister,’ what do you imagine?” Gandalf inquired, springing from Shadowfax’s back with surprising agility for one who looked so old.

**“I am of a mind with Lady Galadriel in this: forging the New Ring in Mount Doom was a mistake. Sauron and the One left their mark there, and it marred the New Ring even as it was made - if indeed it should have been made at all. The Dark Lord’s influence on it is not so great as on the Nine or the One, but it was enough to touch us both. I can see it clearly, looking back now, but because he poured so much of himself into the forging, Celebrimbor’s defenses were weaker even than my own as a mortal Man.**

**“There is also the Doom of Mandos. He _is _of the House of Fëanor, after all.”**

“He was still a child when the Doom was pronounced,” the wizard protested, “He was barely out of his mother’s arms when the First Kinslaying took place.”

Talion raised an eyebrow at him, then quoted, **“‘On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, _and upon all that follow them it shall be laid also_. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures they have sworn to pursue. _To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well_; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be forever.’”** He spread his hands. **“They said ‘they House of Fëanor and all those who follow them,’ not ‘the Kinslayers of Alqualondë.’ Celebrimbor _is_ of the House of Fëanor - his grandson, even - and barring clarification from the Valar, I can only assume that that marks him as bound by the Doom, and _his_ followers, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain - the Jewel-smiths who forged the Rings of Power - may have been caught up as well, _because_ there were his followers - or at least his friends. Perhaps the Doom made it so they were more easily tempted by Sauron as _Annatar,_” **He sneered the name. **“into making the Rings to preserve what they loved, perhaps their making was flawed or more easily perverted, perhaps Eregion’s defenses were weakened, perhaps Celebrimbor was slain and made a wraith because of the Doom. **

**“Perhaps I too am bound in it, because I know who he is and allied with him anyway, let him keep sharing my flesh that we might attempt to throw Sauron down. Though so far as I am aware he swore no Oath, that ‘treasure’ was denied to us, ‘by treason of kin unto kin,’ and the New Ring turned to an evil end, its corrupting influence moving slower but far more insidious than the Nine. And now, though I have not yet Fallen, I have spent more of my life as a Nazgûl half in Shadow than as a living Man in the Light. And who knows? Perhaps I will be dealt true death at the Black Gate - or a final Fall.”**

“We cannot know for sure that any of that is true,” said Gandalf.

**“_That_ is true,”** Talion agreed, **“but neither can we know for sure that it is _false_. But either way, after sixty long years, I will have an answer to the most important question soon enough.”**

* * *

Talion was mostly silent on the rest of the way to the Morannon, save when he called the Riders in the Ephel Dúath to empty their eyries and join the march.

They camped in the desolation before the Black Gate, and a bit of good fortune came in on the night wind - and indeed on Night Wind, Dûgwael, Daerwen’s mate and the father of her young. A fresh phial of Eärendil’s light let them all breathe easy, especially Talion. Despite the Ring draining away his heart and will, there was still enough of him left to be worried that he _would_ Fall and turn against the very people he was trying to defend, here at the end of things.

The Nazgûl remounted Daerwen, who strained at the reins, ever eager for battle, but they stayed back while Aragorn and his party approached the Gate. The enemy Ringwraiths also hung back, dismayed at the sight of the fire-drakes. Though there were only a few, barely more than fifteen, they were worth their weight in Mithril and every ounce of effort it took to raise and train and breed them. And Daerwen herself seemed the pinnacle of that effort; half again as large as her nearest kin and twice as fierce, she had earned her name a hundred times over in a hundred different battles, and her snarls made the Fellbeasts flinch and shy away. Even the Mouth of Sauron had trouble controlling his horse, so great was its fright of her and her siblings.

Talion laid a hand on her scales. **“Settle,”** he murmured, **“I know your blood is up, sweetheart, but you must be patient. They will offer battle soon enough.”**

She stilled under his hand, but her tail whipped back and forth like a cat prepared to pounce and her eyes stayed locked on the other Nazgûl, marking her prey.

And Talion was right. Aragorn beheaded the Mouth of Sauron, and at that signal, all the drakes sprang into the air even as the Black Gate opened wider to release the remnants of Sauron’s armies. **“Leave the Nazgûl to us!”** Talion roared to the other Riders even as he readied his spirit-hammer and took aim. One by one, as fast as he could, Talion shot the other Ringwraiths, stunning them long enough for Daerwen to get in close. She attacked their mounts while he attacked _them_, banishing four successfully in as many minutes. The remaining three were harder with more room to spread out, but then the Great Eagles arrived and helped herd them over to the Gravewalker.

When the last of the remaining seven was broken and banished to Barad-dûr, Talion and Daerwen turned to the ground forces. The drake exhaled great gouts of flame into the ranks of Sauron’s orcs, some Eagles following behind to fan the blazes with their wings-

Talion seized, and felt the shriek of a Nazgûl leave his throat. The One Ring - the One called - no, _demanded_ -

He strained against it without knowing why, only knowing that he _had to_, that resisting the One was the _most important_ thing, the _only_ thing that mattered in those minutes that seemed an Age -

And then he was released. He was on his back on the ground before the Black Gate, but it didn’t seem like he’d fallen very far. Daerwen was crouched above him, snarling like she herself had been attacked, but she shifted aside when he shoved at her, letting him scramble to his feet - 

-just in time to see Barad-dûr start to collapse. Sauron’s hold over him started to weaken - and then kept weakening even as pain sliced across his throat.

Isildur’s Ring turned to dust the instant he got his gauntlet off, but the pain and the wound vanished when he shoved the New Ring on in its place, having retrieved it from Celebrimbor’s vault for just that eventuality. He buckled his gauntlet back on and prayed no one had seen.

**“Where the hell is my sword?”**

“Right here, boss!” Golm passed Urfael over. “Almost put Ghûra’s eye out on the way down.”

**“And some other things too I imagine, with that being the least of her problems. Sorry, Ghûra.”**

“No worries.”

But then Mount Doom exploded from within, and Gandalf and the Great Eagles raced for the volcano, everyone hoping against hope that the Ringbearer and his companions made it out in time.

They had, and when they returned, they were not alone.

Celebrimbor looked even worse than Talion remembered, heavily scarred and worn down by his long fight with Sauron. The wraith’s glowing eyes traced his form, taking in the changes from their years apart, before he stumbled forward - and fell to his knees in front of the Nazgûl. _“I’m sorry,”_ he rasped, head bowed, _“I know that mere words can never make up for what I did, but… I am truly sorry. I never should have…”_

His voice failed him. He kept his head bowed as Talion pulled him to his feet, but then the Man tilted his chin up to look him in the eye. **“You are forgiven,”** he said, **“and it’s over. Our war with Sauron is finally over. We are free - we are _all_ free.”**

Amidst the growing celebrations around them, Talion stepped in and let his head fall onto the Elf’s semisolid shoulder. Celebrimbor hesitated, then hugged him tight. _“It’s over,”_ the Elf repeated.

**“Yeah. It’s over.”**

* * *

“Are you ready to go?”

_“Are_ _you__?”_

“As I’ll ever be, I think.” Talion came to a stop next to the wraith and looked out over the city. Mordor had improved greatly compared to what it had been under Sauron’s time, now with proper cities instead of slave camps and true grass and trees and herds of wild deer and oxen and horses spreading into Gorgoroth. Life had returned to the formerly dead land, and was still returning.

_“There’s still more work to be done.”_

“And there always will be. But I think eight hundred years is long enough. Don't you?”

_“A part of me wants to stay,”_ the wraith confessed, leaning on the railing to better survey the streets below, _“None of the Eldar ever _wanted_ to leave Middle-earth, and neither do I. And… I don't want to abandon our people, these Men and - _ex-orcs_.”_

“We’re not _abandoning_ them - we’re letting them grow. All birds have to leave the nest eventually.”

_“I know,” _Celebrimbor sighed, _“I just…”_

“If you really want to stay, there’s always more work to be done.”

_“And there always will be,”_ the Elf returned, _“and we’ll never rest. But after so long fighting and building and _re_building and negotiating and all of _that_, I think I’d like to try resting. I just wish we could do it here.”_

“Me too. But Valinor awaits, and so do your mother and sister.”

_“Let’s go, then.”_

“Telperion! Laurelin!” Talion whistled.

The two drakes lifted their heads at his call, then got up and shook themselves out. Celebrimbor’s form vanished as the ex-Nazgûl swung up onto one’s back, but his voice could still be heard within. _“Do you really think we can _fly_ to Valinor?”_

“Only one way to find out.”

The drakes’ wings spread and launched them into the sky.


End file.
